Our Books

Our books are sleeping rills,
still musings and meanders

of vagus streams. We may dig
the roots of other branches

stemming elsewhere in their
doubtful leaves. We pale and gale

with them like lapis pride
in Badakhshan and trysts

of Band-e Amir where
poppy blooms are soaked

in tall blessing shadows cast
by gentle ghosts of Bamiyan.

Our books are hermit crabs
with ardor locked in shells.


Taimur Khan

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